6 thoughts on “Dell’ Amore E Di Altri Demoni. Reati Compresi.”

This morning I decide to have a quite walk on the byway. . .
The working unit where I am employed is approximately at the peak of a hill called “The Little Aventine”, some hundred meters beside&upon the Door of Sancte Pauli, the Pyramid of Caio Cestio (an ancient banker I suspect. . .). . .
In front of that door the best of us died, guns in hands for peace, in the desperate attempt to keep the germans far from the roman ghetto in september of 1943. . .
There’s a big piece of marble in memory of that. . .

On of my favourite italian word is “inane”. . .

There’s a train station, Ostiense – “ostia” in latin is the word for “door” – that building is flat and full of corners. . . Was builded quietly quickly in 1938, just to wellcome the leader of germans. . .

The walk started there. . .

I left an un enormous building on my right – we can call it the “house of corruption”, or “of the bankrupt of the public thing”: inside there’s no-one – I believe, believe me – with biggers canines than me, just offices: offices of the roman public company of waters. . .
Rome is full of waters underground. . .

So, as I said, this morning I decide to take a different way – even with the mighty risks that it would be a longer one: not the way along&inside these enormous structures – the last time these walls were restored, quiet recently, it was a financial effort of a pope – but simply the one along&outside. . .

These days the sun on rome is doing an incredible effort. . . It is outraging. And, to me, it’s showing its unwatchable beauty as never mostly. . .

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The Night’s Tale
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Yesterday evening I went out to meet that fresh wind that sweeps at west among the hills and neighbours of Rome during the hot season – his very vernacular name is “ponentino”. . .

I went to a wine house. . . A detail: I talked of you for a little while with the house owner. . .
A man called Thomas, that we use to call Agoustine. . .

A german woman came to this place where I use to fool around with “friends”.
She said her name was Rosita, but her real name was Rosveldt. . . .
She was approximately 50, got an accent from upper-middle tuscany, and that kind of beauty that a woman acquire with age – that kind so undervalued by the fear of death, for the graceful intention of plastic surgeons – a beauty crowned by that kind of hauteur typical of a kind of german character. . .
She was with a man, he too a 50 years old man, with moustaches: and eyes, skin and manners as delicate as a boy. . . Looking at him, I don’t know, I istantly thought he was a saint. . .
He followed her like he was her shadow. . .

I wore a pair of pale jeans, very tight style, very confortable cloth. . . I don’t know if this’ a guilt.

Anyway: she looked at me and she made some place for me to sit beside her, I was tired but I obviously understand everything at first sight.
Then she talked and among the stupid things she said that she had studied and that she was a widow from Francoforte. . . Etc.

She absently put her hands on me getting up to go to smoke a cigarette.

So the show started in a few minutes: she litterally humiliated me with her attention for almost one hour. . . She hooked me with vanity. . . And I was not able to reply. .

Then I feel as charity start bubbling in my soul and all around in the ether and I. . . I remain there, as a puppet. . . A petulant puppet. . .

What, of course, is not a normal behaviour for a 31yo man.

Now you surely have the right to think what I’m: a denial. . .

Even if this today has to be received as a kind of honour. . .

So it happened. . . I felt invincible even if my favourite hero was Hector since the beginning. . .
(And my grandfather told me that epic story when I was 5/6. . .)

Again, anyway: after all kind of attacks, she loosened the grip. . . I was feeling a great strain. . . There was a guy with a joint and I stupidly asked for some of it and he oviously gave to me what I asked for, before of leaving me with a formulated look full of pity and blame. . .
I said:

– Thanks!

I smoked it for a minute, then I turn myself: someone was judging – me or her, I don’t know: and this man was there, behind me, and a man I knew very well: a kind of a painter, a sort of womanizer, a well known liar. . .
One of these old men I use to attend because of a sort of street art course in which I am involved. . .
I turn my back and asked him to keep silence and respect his ignorance. . .

He replied coming down with an even more tasteless tone. . .

Shame exploded.

I look at his glass of wine, one of that classic peace of transparent plastic with the shape of a cone’s section upside down. .. . It was almost full: white wine. . .
I thought:

– This man cannot drink with me.

(“Wow. . . What a bull. . .” – sic)

I took just a very little while to measure the distance, the degree, the power needed. . .
Then I load something very flavoured between the tongue and the hard palate and I spitted it right in his glass: a mouthfull of pure roman saliva. . .

Not a single drop on the ground. . .

The rest it’s not exactly what we use to mean with the word “edificante”. . .
And something that maybe I should whisper in the seal of a confessional. . . If only. . .

After a proper resume of the actually still misterious plot of “The loneliness of the long distance runner” by Alan Sillitoe, laying on a bench near the railroad, I shed the first tear of the year. . .
Not so original, that german woman had abdicated doing exactly the same in front of me just one hour before. . .

Yesterday afternoon I was just thinking: isn’t a good idea to cry? it’s relaxing. . .

Moral of the fiction: I’m really interested in the sort of my country, but I’m clearly out of my head. . .

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Climbing the crest of the hill, living bound for my workplace, at a point, before a road that crossed the walls, there’s a narrow street. . . Never been there before of this mornig. . . I use to recognize it as a street employed as a parking for tourist busses. . . I saw that there are always some busses there. . . But never been there before of this mornig. . .
There, in fact, is the workplace of a couple of bitches. . . A young one, obviously very very attractive, ethnic of central america. . . And an older woman – she seems to be from south east of asia – obvsiouly with a very powerful spiritual charme. . . I thought I just met them on the bus before of today. . . Some of that times I take the bus, some of that mornings I wake up and start acting with robot movements. . .

The young girrl was walking, and overtaking her, I give her a not-so-british look deep in her black eyes, so she said:

– Chi è questo?

Yes. I did it.
I passed on again. . .

* * *

Sometimes the duty of one man – because god is a man, isn’t it? – in bed – or even in the streets – is to respect his duty, and so to deny is duty.

Is this what you and GGM are trying to say?

* * *

I wish I was a proud and fierce DaveBowie: a strong victorian distinguished actor who rules the world with elegance and aplomb. . .

And thinking that this must be what really I am, I find myself on the opposite side of the mirror. . .

* * *

I don’t think it is too muck, too bright or too powerful. . .
I take romanticism as the only serious thing from france. . .
I’m waiting to accept by myself that rome
Was not
Builded in a day

* * *

This’ from The Madcap Laughs:

And, please, forgive my surplus of desire, in desiring to be the centre of your attention, I wrote a lot of signs on screen.

I’d love to hear more and more night tales like this one, on a 31 years old knight, wearing skinny jeans, wandering around a magic city, meeting charming belly dancers, crazy poets, mad men and talking heads, painting the moon with his eyes,meeting foreign friends at the inn (craving to know what you were telling to Agoustine about me!), keeping his sword inside the underpants and a golden medal inside his pocket, playing guitar under my balcony, throwing yummy candies at my window, whispering sweeties to my ear @.@